“Stella? Stella!”
I spin, and it takes me a moment to focus, to let my world expand past Dylan and the way she makes me feel. But I can’t make sense of anything because we’re not in a bathroom like I assumed, but a bedroom. And if Dylan asking me to stop was a shock to my system, this just turns everything off, shuts everything down.
My eyes go to the bed, and I take in information, but it’s all disjointed, fragmented, confused.
Bare, skinny legs. That’s what I register first. A pair of underwear around one ankle. The pieces come slow, too slow—displaced clothes, smudged makeup, closed eyes. I do my damnedest not to zone out and see the big picture because that’s not something I ever want to associate with the girl lying in that bed.
That girl is vibrant and friendly and . . . f**k.
Dylan is touching Stella’s face, talking to her, but she’s passed out cold. Finally, I get my feet to move, and I cross the room and pull a blanket over her so no one else will see her like that.
Then I only think in steps.
Step one. Take care of Stella.
Step two. Find Carter.
Nothing else matters right then.
I face Dylan, place a hand on her shoulder, and say, “Don’t leave her side.” I hand her my phone and say, “Call Dallas first. Then the police.”
I turn to go, and she chokes out over short, broken breaths, “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back.”
I don’t tell her where I’m going because she’ll only worry. But I’m positive this is the room Carter came out of when we were standing on the stairs, and I’d assumed he was fixing his jeans because this was a bathroom. My mind starts to piece together what must have happened before that, before he turned the lights out on Stella and just left her there, and I feel so goddamned angry and helpless.
I have to ask around for a few minutes, but when people see the look on my face, no one hesitates to tell me if they’ve seen Jake.
I find him out in the parking lot, trying to coax some other girl to go home with him, and f**k fair fighting. I haul off and slam him back into his truck.
I look over at the girl he’d been with, but she’s already stumbling away back in the direction of the party.
“What the hell, man?” Carter says.
“I knew you were a f**king prick, but I didn’t have any idea you’d go this low.”
Carter holds his hands up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He tries to shove me off, but I’m not f**king budging until I’m done. “I went in the room. The room you came out of. I found her. Stella. No f**king way I let you get away with this.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he swears, but this time he shoves me hard, and I stumble back a few feet.
“Did she go in that room with you?” I ask. “Was she even conscious or did you take her in there?”
“You can’t f**king prove anything,” Then he tries to leave, and I tackle him. He may be twice my size, but he goes down easy. We both scramble for a few seconds to get the upper hand, and he’s the first one to throw a punch. It lands hard just on the edge of my jaw, and my teeth bang together.
I throw my elbow back hard into his midsection, and he rolls off me, gasping. I take the opening to launch myself at him and get in another good hit to his face.
But he’s so much bigger than me, he shoves me off and I scramble to my feet.
“Just leave this shit alone,” Carter says. “You don’t want another fight on your record. We leave now, nobody gets hurt.”
Fucking ass**le.
“Stella doesn’t count?”
“Come on, man. You know how she is.”
I’m done hearing this shit come out of his mouth. I lunge again, and then we’re locked together, both trying to ward off the other’s hits, while squeezing in a few of our own. I get a good one to his nose, and I feel it crunch under my fist. He pushes me away while he cups his nose with his hand. Blood coats his fingers.
Sirens wail in the distance, and I see the panicked look on Carter’s face.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, man. I swear she was awake.”
“Bullshit. Then why was she passed out when I got there? Why hadn’t she fixed her clothes? If you didn’t do anything wrong, why’d you leave her there like that? Why’d you turn off the lights?”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can see it all unraveling in his expression. The closer the sirens get, the more desperate he is. He stops talking with his mouth then, and switches to fists.
I swing a solid blow into his stomach, and he doubles over. But I underestimate his stamina, and he comes back fast, swinging. His fist plows into my jaw, and the world jerks out of focus for a few seconds. I stumble back. Carter tries to leave, and I hurl myself at his back, sending us both down to the concrete. I can’t take him in a fight like this. He’s too big. So I just concentrate on holding on. I take a punch to the ribs, but I don’t f**king care. He’s not leaving.
My head knocks hard against the concrete a few times, but I hold on, sneaking in a few hits of my own. And we’re both bloody by the time two cops pull us apart.
My mouth is busted up and it stings when I speak, but I say, “He did it. The girl upstairs . . . it was him.”
Then things go a little fuzzy, and I pass out.
ONCE WHEN I was sixteen, I got knocked unconscious in a game for a few seconds after a particularly hard tackle. I remember coming to on the field, feeling like I had done nothing more than blink, and I couldn’t understand why there were so many coaches gathered around me.
This is not at all like that.
I feel like I’ve been out forever, long enough for my body to decay, and my mouth to dry out, and the whole world to move on around me, but when I open my eyes, it can’t have been more than a few minutes because I’m propped up against a nearby car, and there’s a cop and a paramedic kneeling next to me.
“His eyes are open.”
Then, just like that time in high school, more faces appear above me.
McClain. Brookes. Torres.
And Dylan.
I try to stand, but the world goes sideways, and the paramedic claps a hand on my shoulder to hold me in place.
“Easy. I think you might have a concussion.”
“I do,” I answer. I’ve had a handful of those in my life, and this feels similar.